


Do You Believe in Magic?

by alydjarins



Category: Wonder Woman (Movies - Jenkins), Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Canon Universe, Consensual Sex, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Pining, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Reader-Insert, Slow Build, Slow Dancing, Smut, i'm literally going to die i love this man so much i can't describe it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 06:01:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30101400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alydjarins/pseuds/alydjarins
Summary: You've been interning for Max Lord at Black Gold for three months now. Between late nights at the office and secret touches, you can't bring yourself to divulge your feelings - one wish at a midnight party, though, could change all of that.(listen-along playlist + moodboard in notes!)
Relationships: Maxwell Lord/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 17





	Do You Believe in Magic?

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! <3 
> 
> If you want to listen along to my playlist that inspired this fic as you read, it's right here:  
> open.spotify.com/playlist/2ABOLRePd3vgYSpcOcJK4O?si=qrDeSFRwSWuU2od7PXQyPw 
> 
> Aaand I made a sorta general moodboard here, since I'll absolutely be continuing with this MCU (Max Cinematic Universe), lmao:  
> pinterest.com/pasc_aly/late-nights-at-the-office/ 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Ah!

The party is too loud. Much too loud.

Lights blind you from every angle, music thrums and pangs at the helm of your ears, and all you want is him.

With a drink of something white and fresh wrapped under your grip, you squeeze your way through Black Gold’s lower-level offices. The space went unused — as far as you had been aware, it remained only a kind of gathering space for intimate parties of empty design, for thrones of investors and important D.C. names to mingle and toast drunken promises to his success. 

To Maxwell Lord himself. 

The red of your dress itches and scrapes along lines of your hips. High heels clank along the tiled floor, and you suddenly hear each step echo along the beautifully and vapidly beamed ceilings. Clouds of hairspray and seas of black ties threaten to drown you. _Fuck_. Where is he? You have papers to hand him — an endowment from a businessman drunk on Foreigner, drunk on the curves of your crimson-glitter cloth. You had edged away from him as quickly as possible to find your boss of just three months. 

Something about Maxwell’s face had flashed superimpositions on the other man: where his nose pointed and crunched something disgusting above a merlot-stained smile, Max was strong. Respectful. Impeccably groomed and pleasant to look at. Where the man’s rat eyes had leered, Max breathed in sighs of restraint at every single midnight event. He knew you were worth more — worth the talent, worth the force, worth your own beauty. Maybe he could save you. 

“A little lost, my dear?” You whirl to seek the source of the timber: low, husky, powerful.

Max Lord. 

Mr. Black Gold himself stands before you, an equally light but maroon drink swishing within the grip of his right hand. One golden pinky ring flashes along the bell curve of the glass — a lavish, glittery watch mirrors those subdued sconce lights he’d _insisted_ on importing from France. (You couldn’t pay enough mind to them.) An expectant smile toys at the edge of his lips, clean-shaven skin with an omen of ghost stubble dancing on top. 

Stupid.

No matter what he’d told you these past three months, you were stupid. 

“Mr. Lord,” you breathe. Your bare shoulders sink with a sense of familiarity and relief. Home. (Enough late nights at Max’s request had you there more than your _apartment_ , anyway.) “Sorry, I— you think I’d know my way around a party by now.” Embarrassed and overwhelmed, you throw a glance to the mirrored floor. The girl who looks back is small. She is incompetent; she is _stupid_ for being so exhausted by the hours of social expectancies. Wouldn’t you need to do this if you kept working with Max?

He heaves a noise of dismissal. “Nonsense.” Did he read your mind? The watch-clad hand waves a motion, and a pit in your core tells you he is rejecting the thoughts. “Internships are tricky as they are, no? Easy to get lost among the _noise_ of all these… promises.” He tilts a head somewhere back to the muddied sea of guests. When his gaze drops, he catches the near crushed-up paper clenched between your grip. “Is that one of those promises?” he chuckles before taking a gentle, suave swig of the maroon. 

“Oh. _Oh_ , yes, I’m so sorry, Mr. Lord, I— I was on my way to find you, and I… the music was so loud, and so many people were trying to get my attention, and then— ”

He frowns. Something dark furrows his brow, knots it within the crease of tanned biotin-glossy skin. Seeking refuge on a nearby table, Max places his glass along its cloth. He motions his now free hands to grip your shoulders, until: 

“May I?” He waits.  
You smile. You nod. Of course he may. 

Max’s large, calloused hands grip your bare bones at the top of their curve. The touch is electric — you feel it jolt to your fingertips, to somewhere foreign under your cherry glitter dress. He settles and sighs something unknown into the static air. “ _Relax_ , my dear,” he pleads. His thumbs begin to rub tiny circles into your skin — they chase kneaded knots away from your stressed and strung muscles, and you melt into the trance. 

Something in the forbidden core of your stomach flips. Over, over, and over: his thumbs, your butterflies, his thumbs. It’s all you can feel. 

Moments like these are no stranger to the pair of you. 

You began as a lowly intern for Black Gold, eager to amass credit for your job field at the tail end of a college career. Maxwell Lord had introduced himself to you with the same gusto he performed to his investors: vapid, empty, showy. As your office days tumbled to weeks, though, you noticed a pattern. Your hours increased. Your responsibilities deepened. Max’s requests for you to visit his office? Mutually exclusive. You often delivered papers barely necessary for review (you weren’t supposed to read them, but you did). During meetings that Max progressively insisted you stay for — ‘ _for the experience_ ’, he hummed, because a talented young woman like yourself deserved it — he sat next to you each time. Was it your imagination when your knees touched? D.C. businessmen would spout analytics and oil numerics, and Max’s hand would lazily massage his knee, knuckles grazing your own leg from beneath your pencil skirt. Was that your imagination, too? You liked to pretend it wasn’t.

So as you lay beneath lonely, cream-colored sheets at night, you told yourself stories.   
  
Example 1: It wasn’t a coincidence when your name lolled on Max’s tongue longer than anyone else’s, deeper and edging a foreign baritone that belonged only to you. _That_ story was your favorite. Then, you imagined it was on purpose when he let you meet his son, and it was not a coincidence when he eyed the two of you growing thick as thieves in ten minutes with a proud smile. Example 172: Maybe it wasn’t an accident, then, when his eyes ambled along your form. You often leaned against his office door, absorbing the rants and raves of Maxwell Lord (Lorenzano, you came to learn) as he caught the bridge of his nose and his emotional turmoils tumbled out. You _helped_. His blonde lay disheveled and messy during those nights. When you offered your wisdom — whatever you could give someone with a twenty year advance on you — he lingered. Sighed. Calmed. Praised you for your maturity.

Not a coincidence that you liked it.   
...That one wasn’t a story. 

So it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that you liked this, too — the trance his thumbs sent you under — in some deep and secret recess of your core’s devil-butterfly cage. (Example 173.)

“Listen.” His thumbs settle, finally, swinging back to his suit and shoving themselves into sleek, thigh-tailored pockets. “Can we get you upstairs? To my office, maybe? We can review the papers up there — see if this promise is worth it _together_.”

You nod, hoping the butterflies would lull their rapid wing beats. “Of course, sir.” 

The party is too loud. Much too loud, still. Lights blind you from every angle, music thrums and pangs at the helm of your ears — but Max Lord ghosts a hand on your back and leads you upstairs, to his office, and you don't care. All you really want is him.  
  


* * *

  
On the top floor, party remnants thrum below you like a gentle earthquake. Tall, glass window panes betray a 1AM velvet moonlight. An aureate lamp spills false, yellow glares into a secret corner of the office. You are seated at Max’s desk — something he had insisted on long ago, so you could understand what power felt like. (You’d need it one day, he said. A woman of your potential was bound to take his place.) The tan leather etches patterns into the bareness of your thighs, hitched up as your dress rises closer to your core. 

Max towers above you. One ringed hand is gripped against the desk’s edge, and the other is braced against the headrest of your chair.   
  
...Well. His chair.

He wasn’t wrong about that power feeling. 

Except now, you try to look over the numbers — to review the analytics with him. You really, truly do. But he is so close, and you’re losing your grip on reality. His slightly undone tie is inches from your face, and the scent of cologne swathes you in a clandestine blanket of his own design. It is musky, manly, and dizzying. You want to sink into the beige hide — or, better yet, turn and wrap yourself in his hugeness, in the totality of Black Gold’s head. You were so. Close.

So much for that power. 

“So,” Max breathes, and— oh, God. Did he have to? Did he have to drawl the words right next to your ear and tease a shiver from the base of your spine? His timber is low: a voice reserved only for you. His business partners didn’t see this softness, were not lit aflame by the covert force that melded with it. That easy, hard-lined tenderness was yours. Each whisper was accompanied by a jutted jawline; every mellowing of Max’s brow married a spoken command, or words of encouragement you’d only accept from him.

The dyad of He, of Max Lord and Tiny, Powerful You writhing in his chair, makes you feel drunk. 

“The numbers along this column… this is what he wants to provide us by next quarter, yes?” Max maneuvers to finger-trace soft lines over the paper. His sleeve is rolled to his elbows after forty minutes of ‘work’ with you, and his naked forearm grazes yours. You jolt at the contact. Goosebumps prickle along your _everywhere_. Somewhere in the lamp’s shadows, his suit coat is lazily slacked over a much less important chair. 

“Yes, sir, um. Yes. It…” you stare. You sharpen. You cross your eyes and uncross them to snap yourself into a faux focus. A lump hitches along the base of your throat. Max’s breath is still tumbling into the shell of your ear, along the curve of your neck hairs bristling towards him like flowers to the sun, into the ravines of your collarbone. You manage to register his breath bloom into a chuckle.

“My word,” he trills, “seems we’ve gotten a case of the Late Nights already.” He _tsks_ and clicks into your ear. “Shame.”

Shit. He must have noticed. You pray he cannot actually read your mind. 

You play dumb. “Sorry, sir?” 

Max’s forearm muscles flex to dart from the table, the papers, from _you_. The air cradling you grows cold and bitter, the same as stepping out from a bath into the abandon of midnight air. You mourn the loss at once. “ _You_ ,” he smirks as he saunters over to an antique record player, “need a break. Maybe a little bit of that party energy, hm, honey?” 

The new nickname sends revolutions of a universe through your core again. When did _that_ appear? Had you missed it during one of your meetings masquerading as business — did he accidentally let it slip during a visit with Alistair? He must tell. You realize your mouth is agape after a few seconds of no response. 

“You… want me to _dance_?”   
“Just until we refocus,” Max shrugs, eyebrow tilted and lips arched. “Helps recalibrate the energy, you know?” You watch a short fingernail glide between the record grooves — up and down, lazily bending, massaging, roving. The motion kneads something forbidden in your gut. 

The temperature shifts again. Cold bathes your spine. “We’ll keep it slow,” he reassures you, amused and careening on the edge of something else you cannot name. “A beautiful woman like yourself deserves some rest after a long night of assisting. Slow dancing _only_ ,” he laughs through a darkened brow. _Please don’t be reading my mind, please don’t be—_   
“Agreed?” He waits.   
“...Um. Sure. I— agreed,” you breathe. “Agreed, actually.” Maybe he was right. Maybe this would help. “Agreed _very_ much.”

He chuckles again, and it loops like a broken record in the back of your mind. “That’s my girl.” 

The player scratches. A guitar lullaby suffuses the room from its lavish rugs to the gold-laced curtains. Max stands static before you: one hand nonchalantly lingering on the table of the record player, another with his fingers splayed out in an offering. A promise. You feel hypnotized. 

Frenzied, you haul in a breath and tense to stand. Papers fall to the wayside of the wooden desk. Your heels stab something shaky into the carpet as they carry you to him: to Max Lord. The only person you want. 

As you intertwine your fingers with his, another hand finds its way to the small of your back. You breathe out a small _‘oh!’_ as he seizes you closer, chasing away any space between you. Now, your core grazes his, and the cologne spins around you in all directions. Part of your wrist feathers against the cold steel of his watch.   
“Mr. Lord, I—”   
“You _can_ use Max. You know that... right?” he grins something sly, and charming. You grin back.   
“Sounds like you’ve used that line on plenty of assistants before.”   
Max chuckles as you begin to pirouette the axis of his musk, his breath, his cosmos.  
“Assistants, maybe. Never interns. Especially not interns like _you_.”

Suddenly, outside, a flash. Someone walks by. A reflex makes you jump. You hide into Max until your palms are fused and held to his collarbones, and your hair trails along the edges of his tie. When you realize what you’ve done, you can’t help it.  
  
“Sorry! Oh gosh, I… didn’t mean to...” you mutter and trail. Did you?   
“Shh, sh, sh,” he lulls, running a finger along the back of your bouncy, glammed-up curls before pulling you a few centimeters away. He looks so _tender_. “Nothing wrong with a bit of relaxation between co-workers, no?”

Another reflex whips you away from his warmth, back to this less distant and not-very-secret dance. You can only shake your head. “No. No, I guess not... _Max_.” 

Music floods the room. Finally, you notice the window is open. A late-night breeze chills your spine. The guitar drags, Max swirls you, grips your hand even tighter. You cannot tell where his fresh musk spills; you cannot tell where Max Lord begins and you end.   
“What did you mean, by the way?”   
“Mm?” Moonlight permeates and tinges into the crevices of your skin and his.   
“Interns like… _me_ ,” you hesitate. You are overwhelmed, but somehow, your focus stays crisp.   
  
“It’s simple, my dear.” Another twirl. Max’s fingers begin to coax heated trails along the skin your dress does not touch; the pads of them tap butterfly beats and melody meters in their wake. “I’m a powerful man, am I not?” You open your mouth to fake protest, and he raises a theatrical eyebrow to say ‘ _watch it_ ’. His eyes soften when you giggle. 

You’re sure your heart will break from its throbbing cage.

“It’s…” he sighs. You feel him twitch to reflexively cradle the bridge of his nose again, a sure sign of stress. (How many nights have you stuck around to prove that?) “It’s not easy.”   
“I know,” you smirk. “I’ve seen the income reports from last month.” You tumble out another giggle, but— oh. Oh, no. That hit a nerve. 

There’s a foreign note in his eyes that recede into a man you haven’t seen before. He is not stressed, or angry, or even upset — he is only scared. This is the Lorenzano boy he’s only referenced in passing, like a ghost come back to life.   
“Oh, Max, I—”   
“ _You_ ,” he recollects and breathes the Lord back in, “are different. You help. You know? Make me feel real. It gets…” he edges a glance to the extravagantly barren room, stuffed to the brim with furniture unused beyond anyone except a small child. “...Lonely. A lot, often.”  
“And I help with that?” 

He pushes his chin back, a theatrical kind of motion to testify against your self-doubts. “How could you not? I’m the luckiest man in D.C., aren’t I? The best company, the best company for Alistair. It helps. More than you might believe.” 

Suddenly, he is mapping the lines of your neck veins, bringing one soft hand to cup your face. “ _Thank you_.” He means it. “Is this— okay?”   
“Mm… mhm,” you nod, feeling an acute surge of desire plunge lightning bolts to the apex of your legs.   
“And…” Max unfurls his fingers along your waist, now, letting a thumb rub tiny circles on your hip bone — the same he’d already etched into your shoulders. “This? Is this okay?”

Your cheeks burn. If you could wish away the fabric there, you would.  
  
“Yes, sir. Um. _Max_. Yes.”  
  
He hums a low, intrigued tune. The vibrations of it breach every nerve of your bones trying to fight your desire for him, your need. “Tell me, dear. What do you wish for?”  
“Wish?”  
“Mhm. You must have career aspirations you still haven’t told me about. Don’t you?”  
“Well, they’re not… career-based,” you murmur, red nails clamping a little tighter onto his suit.   
“Ah. Personal aspirations. I’m all the wiser to those,” Max says. His eyes flash the same look you’ve seen when Alistair is in the room — when the two of you are reading a story, or talking about the latest and greatest superheroes with awe. “They can be a bitch. But Max is here — no need to keep them a secret any longer.”  
“Well, I mean… I can think of something.” The muscles in your thighs twitch and flex as his eyes pierce yours. Now, you wish he _was_ reading your mind.   
“You know, sweetheart, I can grant you anything. All you have to do is ask, really.”

Maybe it’s your imagination. Perhaps it’s the hitch of the sudden saxophone. As you spin and swirl and surge an eddy into the carpet, though, you can’t help but wonder — were you this close when you started? Before you realize, the music has stopped. You feel naked. 

“...Max, I want…” He is edging closer, nearer, warmer.   
“Mm…”   
“I wish, um…”  
“It’s just me, sweetheart.”   
“I wish for—”  
“Mhm—”  
“ _You_.” You squint your eyes shut in fear of what you’ve done. “I wish I could have your power. I wish I could show you what you… how you make me feel.” You cannot bear to look at him. He forces you to, though, and you jump when you feel a finger lift the burning borders of your jaw. Your cheeks buzz the same glittered crimson of your dress. 

“We really shouldn’t, my dear,” Max whispers. His eyes are darkened with bewitching hour lust.   
An alien wave of blooming confidence grips hold of your nerves. “Do you really believe that, though? _Max_?”  
He swallows, and you can’t think of the last time you’ve seen him like this.  
“So, Mr. Lord? Are you going to? Are you going to fulfill your promise and—”

Before you know it, his lips are crashing into yours, huge hands tracing lines up and down your arms that tiptoe a balance between soft and hard. He is everything. You arch your back to better accept him and the ferocity scorching his kisses. Max gasps, and moans, and groans, and you know you have him wrapped around your finger — the same one that runs burning little lines along the nape of his neck. 

“I don’t—” Max pinpoints between pants and kisses— “know— how much I’ll be able to— stop myself. If we start.” He takes a moment to pull away, eyeing you with the need for consent. Blood hums in your veins. You know what this is. You know why he wants to make sure you’re safe; he’s felt so scared for so long. Why would he want to make you feel the same? 

Learning from his charmed smokeshow earlier, you fake a frown. “Well, if you didn’t, then you wouldn’t be fulfilling my wish.” You tangle ruby nails into his brown and blonde to whisper a secret question to his core: “ _Would you, Max_?” At the question’s end, your teeth graze the shell of his ear’s curve, and you dart a tongue to trace it with breathy leylines. 

He shudders under you, and that is, quite simply, that. 

Frenzied and fumbling, Max reaches to lace spaghetti straps down the contours of your arms, to your elbows. “More,” you breath, still striking tingling bursts along his lips. He obeys. Finally, you are standing tall beneath his gaze, only black silk and bronze heels hugging the goosebumps of your skin. 

“You look… breathtaking,” he mutters between a stuttered gasp, eyeing the length of you and cataloging every curve, every dip. You are burning, trembling, yearning. When his small smile meets yours at his journey’s end, you can only feel safe — warm, important, secure. Worth it. 

Max reels in your sea of desire as he steps closer, cupping your hip with a feather-light touch while another grazes the black. He is a silk slip away from the most secret parts of you. “May I?” His eyes flick up to yours, and his hand flutters inches away. You tumble a nod out. Suddenly, then, the tip of his finger jolts to the smallest bunching of lace, and electric lightning swells from your core to every single nerve ending.  
“ _Yes_ ,” you inhale. “Please, yes, I—”   
“ _Mmm_ ,” Max chuckles, knowing and small. He braces your shoulder as you nearly buckle from his first touch. “Sensitive, are we?”  
“Just, uh—” you laugh through your still prickling nervousness. “Just a little.” 

You end the faltered aria in a near frown, and you could cry. You’ve never done this. Well, you _have_ , of course — just not with Max. Not with this power, this cosmic thunder booming beneath grazing touches. Months and months of secret glances and late-night wishes culminate through your heart center, and you’re sure it might break from your chest.

Then, his fingernail begins to glide. It scratches over the fabric like it did the record grooves: up, down, bending, caressing, lazily massaging and roving one stark line. The motion kneads something forbidden in your gut again. Flashes of white prickle TV static along your vision, and you grip fingers around Max’s neck so you don’t crumble.

“You have to keep telling me what you _want_ , darling,” he whispers, swimming in wicked delight at rendering you speechless. “That is how this works, you know — don’t you?”

Through a furrowed brow and panting breath, you force a darkened gaze to his. The chocolate-iris specks tie up thorns in your chest. Whatever grip you have left on the power he’s given you… you can only wish to keep possessing it like he wants.

“Desk,” you breathe, not sure which forbidden part of you it hums from.   
“What was that?” Another hitch. Another bend of his knuckle that culls electric shocks from your still-veiled slit. Bastard.   
“The _desk_ , Max.” You gasp through gritted teeth when he grazes a thumb near the zenith of your pleasure. “Move everything off— the desk and—”  
“And?”   
“And _fuck_ me.” You are certain you’re possessed when your knees tighten and brace, and your scarlet fingerpaint moves to grip sunken marks into his jawline. He is yours now, whether he likes it or not. “ _Fuck_ me, Max, for God’s sake, fuck me. Please.” 

He growls. 

Max makes no effort to shackle his lust as he pushes the two of you towards his wooden desk. He dives to sweep papers away, and your throbbing vision can only see him — can only drown one last remaining gem of sanity in his musk. “I’m going to close my eyes,” you shudder as he scrambles, “and _you_ , Max Lord, are going to take complete control of me. Do you understand?” 

Low, sultry, incoherent mews answer you.  
“Good— that’s my— _ah_ — that’s... my man.” You groan as Max bites burning waves of pleasure along the crook of your neck. He lays you down and molds you to the shape of the wood.  
“Are you sure?” he spills, one hand stroking languid and hurried rhythms along your inner thigh. Another reaches beneath you to free your breasts from silken cages. The desk supports the length of you now. “You wish this? You wish for me?” 

“How could I…” you jut your chin towards the ceiling, towards some invisible velvet sky as Max peppers loving kisses down the line of your hips. As he does, he strips you of your last bit of blackened restraints. You — your body, your mind, your _soul_ — lay naked and taut beneath him. “How could I not?” 

Sealed-shut eyes grant you the song of Max’s zipper releasing. Somewhere, the brief sound of plastic rips and wraps fall to the floor. Through heated space, you can feel his covered length near your entrance — rigid, strong, engorged. You imagine the teasing smile that plays at his lips. Stars of anticipation kiss your heart. 

“Max,” you command, some soft and budding control edging the dips of his name on your tongue. “I want you, _now_ , stop waiting— _oh_!” 

Suddenly, his own tongue is swirling hotly around your pleasure point. Your fingers shoot to tangle shocked and digging knots through his hair. Up, down, up, down. Max’s fingers tease your flowering lips apart, and allow him access to the pink fire that burns beneath them. “Did I say…” you struggle through your groans, not caring if the entire Black Gold office hears you by now. He switches from rigid strokes to languid, all-over-laps of your honeyed taste. “Did I say you could— _agh_ , did I say you could do… that… Max?” 

Max pulls away for one moment to chuckle a heated breath into you. You gasp to collect yourself. “You wished for me to control you, sweetheart. Is this not exactly—” he skims a flash feather-touch to one nipple before rolling it between a tight knuckle, and your resolve crumbles again— “what I’m giving you?”   
“I—” 

Before you can answer properly, Max shifts, and his length is crashing into the totality of you. 

You think you may scream. 

Not sure if he’s truly reading your mind now, your mouth is suddenly shrouded by the tangy taste and male scent of his ringed hand. “Go on,” he chuckles before leaning down to trace the same tongued-line in your ear that you taunted him with. “Scream.”

And as you take him to the hilt — as his slick heat finally begins to rear a raging lust inside of you, to your entrance and back again — you do. 

Max moves his hand to graze the underpinnings of your jaw, still reaching for an invisible blanket of stars past the office canopy. He pumps sinuous strength towards spots inside of you you weren’t sure existed. Shaky fingers quiver along your ribs, tickling light motions along the jutting bones there. 

“You know,” he meanders as he drives something wicked inside of you, “it’s a shame, really. Shame you can’t open your eyes. You’d see how beautiful I see you, my dear.” 

Your voice is not entirely steady when you respond. “If I do that,” you gasp in a vortex of _Max_ , “I wouldn’t last. We both—” he teases one stroke of a secret spot— “know it.” 

“I think we’ve lasted long enough, darling. Late nights…” He strokes sticky hair from your forehead. You squeeze your eyelids until they pang. “Too many touches…” His tongue dips and swirls along your top lip. “Too much _want_.” A free hand surges circles along the edges of your knee. It tickles; you writhe. “Well. We do want what we want, after all. And do you know...” he enunciates his words with each thrust of his tension inside of you. “Do you know— what I— _want_?”

Something exotic bubbles from your core to your chest. It twinges a spark of something in your throat — threatens to spill from your eyes in tears with how _good_ it feels. Finally, you grant Max Lord’s wish.

You open your eyes. 

“Me.” 

At the sight of you, the sight of your heady desire spilling ricochets of want, he is gone. You watch as you make him crumble — as Max Lord and Maxwell Lorenzano collapse into the very power he has granted you. His mouth makes an ‘ _oh!_ ’ shape, the same he coaxed from you not one hour before. Max skims one last thrust, finally reaching the deep and dark island of bliss buried inside of you. Spasms of pure unadulterated pleasure burn through your core, and you briefly register him groan something fiery and all-consuming into the sanctuary of _you_. 

As you both breathe a comedown, he chuckles. Disheveled hair that makes him look like a lunatic graze along your collarbones, and you reach a hand to stroke softness into it. “We should, uh… probably be using the couch next time, huh?”

“Next time,” you hum. “Sure. But… you do have a _bed_ , don’t you?” He smiles a playful little smirk into your still-burning skin before pressing his lips one, two, three times there.

“Somehow, they’ve given me that much. And… Alistair would be thrilled to have extra company the day after, especially if it’s his favorite storyteller.”  
“Mm. Good thing I just happen to the best company all of D.C. has to offer, huh, Mr. Lord?” You smile his own playful smirk back. 

He laughs, now, and you’re sure it’s the first real laugh you’ve heard from Max yet. 

Maybe office parties aren’t so bad, after all.

Maybe — with some wishing — they’re even a little bit of magic.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Stay tuned for more Max soon ♡
> 
> Tumblr post: alydjarins.tumblr.com/post/645915873994031104/do-you-believe-in-magic


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